Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Jamaica
Present Day
Twenty-three felt exactly like twenty-two, which seemed like a design flaw.
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of our rented villa—same dark curls refusing to cooperate with the humidity, same freckles scattered across my nose like someone had flicked a paintbrush at my face, same brown eyes that my mom always said were “expressive” and my best friend Jenna claimed were “perpetually skeptical.”
“Maddie!”
Speaking of Jenna. Her voice carried through the villa’s open windows, accompanied by the sound of blender blades massacring ice.
“Get out here! Your birthday margarita is getting warm!”
“Margaritas don’t get warm, they get watery!” I called back, but I was already grabbing my phone off the sink counter and heading for the door.
September in the Caribbean was supposed to be dicey—hurricane season and all that—but we’d lucked out so far with three days of perfect weather. Warm without being oppressive, the kind of breeze that smelled like salt and flowers and made you believe in paradise.
The villa’s terrace overlooked a sweep of turquoise water that looked Photoshopped but wasn’t. I’d checked. Multiple times. With my phone’s zoom function and everything.
“There she is!” Jenna thrust a frosted glass into my hand, the rim crusted with lime and salt. “The birthday girl who tried to bail on this trip. Remember that? Remember when you said, and I quote, ‘I should probably save my vacation days for something important’?”
“I never said that.”
“You absolutely said that.” My other friend, Marcus, looked up from his lounge chair, sunglasses reflecting the pool. “It was July twenty-third, I remember because you know who had just dumped me. You were eating sad desk salad in the break room.”
“That salad wasn’t sad. It was economical.”
“It was depressing,” Jenna said. “Which is why we staged an intervention and bought your plane ticket before you could argue.”
I took a sip of the margarita. It was perfect—tart and cold and exactly the right amount of tequila to make the world soften at the edges. “Okay. You might have had a point.”
“Might?” Marcus sat up, mock-offended. “Madison Carter, admit it. We saved you from yourself.”
“You saved me from budget spreadsheets and answering phones at Coastal Adventures Tours while pretending I’m totally fine with my life choices.”
The words came out sharper than I’d intended. Jenna’s expression shifted to concern—that worried-friend look I’d been seeing more often lately.
“Hey.” She sat down on the lounge chair next to me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m great. This is great.” I lifted my glass. “To being twenty-three and only moderately directionless.”
“To spontaneity!” Jenna clinked her glass against mine. “Which you’re going to practice more of this year. Starting today.”
“I can be spontaneous.”
“You color-code your socks.”
“That’s called organization.”
“You make daily schedules for vacation.”
“That’s called maximizing our time.”
Marcus laughed. “Face it, Mads. You’re the least spontaneous person we know. Which we love about you, mostly, but also it means you need to let loose a little. Live in the moment. Do something unplanned.”
“I’m drinking tequila at eleven in the morning. That’s pretty unplanned.”
“It’s on your itinerary,” Jenna said. “I saw it. ‘Eleven a.m.: birthday cocktails on terrace.’”
Okay, she had me there.
The truth was, I’d been making itineraries since I was twelve.
Dad used to joke that I’d inherited all of Mom’s organizational skills and none of his spontaneity.
He’d be the one dragging us to random historical markers on road trips, changing plans on a whim because he’d heard about some archaeological site or forgotten battlefield.
History is happening all around us, Mads, he’d say. You just have to pay attention.
Then his heart stopped paying attention three years ago, yesterday. Right in the middle of a lecture about the French and Indian War. No warning. No time to prepare. Just—gone.
After that, I’d doubled down on planning. If I could control my schedule, anticipate every variable, maybe nothing else could blindside me.
It was working great, except for the part where I’d turned into the kind of person who ate sad desk salads and coordinated other people’s vacations instead of taking her own.
“So,” Marcus said, pulling me back to the present. “The itinerary says we’re doing a plantation tour this afternoon?”
“Rose Hall.” I pulled up the booking confirmation on my phone. “Restored sugar plantation from the 1700s. Original kitchen, the grounds, plus there’s a whole section about the economic history of—”
“Dead stuff in glass cases?” Jenna finished, smirking.
I threw a lime wedge at her. “It’s called cultural preservation.”
“It’s called you’re a history nerd who won’t admit she misses academia.”
“I don’t miss academia. I miss my Dad.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Jenna’s hand found mine. “I know, sweetie.”
“Three years yesterday,” I said quietly. “I thought maybe being here would help. Different hemisphere, different everything.”
“Does it?”
“Ask me after more tequila.”
Marcus raised his glass. “To your dad. Who would definitely approve of day-drinking in the Caribbean.”
“To Dad,” I echoed. “Who would’ve made us skip the official tour and sneak into all the off-limits areas.”
“Now that’s the kind of spontaneity we can work with,” Jenna said.
“The tour starts at two,” I said, checking my phone. “Which gives us time for lunch at that place overlooking the harbor.”
“See?” Marcus gestured at me with his drink. “Schedule.”
“It’s called being a good planner.”
“It’s called being terrified of chaos.”
“Same thing.”
We spent the next few hours exactly as planned—or mostly.
Lunch ran long because Marcus got into a debate with our waiter about the best rum distilleries on the island, and we had to make a detour because Jenna spotted a market stall selling hand-painted ceramics.
I bought a bowl I absolutely didn’t need, but it had a pattern that reminded me of something from one of Dad’s archaeology books.
By the time we pulled up to Rose Hall, we were running fifteen minutes behind schedule, which made my left eye twitch but which Jenna declared “progress toward spontaneity.”
The plantation sprawled across a gentle rise, all whitewashed stone and colonial architecture that probably looked romantic if you didn’t think too hard about who’d built it and why. The main house gleamed in the afternoon sun, surrounded by gardens that had been meticulously restored.
Our tour guide—a cheerful woman named Patricia who had the kind of enthusiasm that made you believe she genuinely loved talking about 18th-century sugar production—greeted us at the entrance.
“Welcome to Rose Hall! Before we begin our tour of the great house, we have a special immersive experience.”
She gestured toward a small outbuilding near the entrance.
“We’ve recreated some of the working garments worn by the indentured servants and laborers who worked this plantation.
Many were Irish, Scottish, and English—brought over through debt bondage or as punishment for various crimes.
We invite you to try on the period clothing to get a sense of what daily life was like. ”
“Oh God,” Marcus said under his breath. “It’s going to be one of those tours.”
But Jenna was already heading toward the building. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”
The costume room was humid and smelled like mothballs and old fabric. Patricia handed us each a bundle—simple dresses for Jenna and me, a rough shirt and breeches for Marcus.
“These are replicas, of course,” Patricia explained. “But we’ve tried to use similar fabrics and construction methods. The indentured servants wore very simple garments—rough linen, practical cuts. Nothing like the fine clothing worn by the plantation owners.”
I pulled the dress over my tank top and shorts. The fabric was coarse against my skin, undyed and heavy. It was basically a sack with sleeves—shapeless, practical, designed for work rather than comfort.
“This is awful,” Jenna said, tugging at her neckline. “How did anyone survive wearing this in this heat?”
“They didn’t have a choice,” I said, adjusting the rough fabric at my shoulders. The dress hung loose and long, hitting below my knees. “Most indentured servants worked off debts for years. Seven years was standard for minor crimes or unpaid debts.”
“Show-off,” Marcus muttered, but he was already sweating in his costume. “Seriously, this is medieval. I’m dying.”
“The fabric would’ve been even rougher back then,” Patricia said cheerfully. “At least you don’t have to add the shift and petticoat.” She grinned at us and handed us aprons to put on over the dresses.
“No modern manufacturing processes. And they would’ve worked in full sun for ten to twelve hours a day.”
I looked down at the apron and the dress, grateful that without the shift, we had short sleeves.
Something about wearing it made the history feel different—less abstract, more real.
These weren’t just facts from a textbook.
Real people had worn clothes like this, had sweated in them, had worked until their hands bled.
“Can you imagine?” Jenna said, fanning herself with her hand. “I’d have revolted on day one.”
“Many did,” I said. “Tried to escape, sabotaged equipment, formed secret networks to help each other flee.”
Patricia nodded approvingly. “That’s exactly right. The historical record shows significant resistance among the bonded laborers. Now, shall we begin the tour?”
We followed her through the great house, our period costumes drawing amused looks from other tourists. Patricia pointed out the mahogany paneling, the original furnishings, the view from the upstairs veranda where the plantation mistress would’ve taken her tea while watching the fields below.